The Slaughterers Camp
‘Behave yourselves, you stupid things!’ came Magda’s angry voice. ‘Oh, no! Not again!’
Rook turned to see his friend hopelessly entangled in the gossamer light spider-silk sails. ‘You’ve got to watch out for the crosswind, Magda,’ he called over his shoulder, as he concentrated on controlling his own sails, which were billowing up into the warm air like two large, unruly kites.
He tugged on the silk cord in his right hand and the loft-sail gently folded in on itself. Then, having waited a split second, he swung his left arm round in a wide arc, playing out cord to the nether-sail. It, too, folded gracefully in on itself, and fell silently to the ground.
‘How do you do that?’ said Magda. She looked at the two neatly folded sails beside Rook, then at the tangled mess of cord and spider-silk wrapped round her own arms and trailing in the dust, and sighed deeply.
‘You look like a bedraggled snowbird,’ laughed Stob. He was sitting at a table eating tilder steaks with two flame-red slaughterers, who laughed good-naturedly with him.
In front of them the huge fire crackled in the vast iron brazier, throwing heat high into the clearing and warming the long family hammocks slung from the trees above.
Rook loved the slaughterers camp almost as much as the Gardens of Light. Especially at this time of day, when the evening shadows grew long, the camp fires were replenished and, one by one, the slaughterer families woke up and poked their flame-red heads from their hammocks to greet the new night. Soon, the communal breakfast would begin. Rook’s stomach gurgled in anticipation of tilder steaks and honey-coated hammelhorn hams. But first, he must try to disentangle his poor friend.
He turned back to Magda, crouched down, and began gently tugging at the knotted ropes.
‘Careful, now. Careful,’ came a voice from behind him. It was Brisket, the slaughterer who had been assigned to teach the four apprentices all about sail-setting and ropecraft. ‘Don’t want to weaken the fibres now, do we?’ he said. ‘Let me have a look.’
Rook stood back. Brisket kneeled down and began teasing the ropes loose with one hand, while – taking care not to snag it – easing the sailcloth free with the other. Rook watched closely. Even though the slaughterer was little older than himself, his every movement revealed a lifetime of experience.
‘My word, mistress!’ he was saying. ‘You really have got yourself in a tangle this time, haven’t you?’
‘I just don’t understand it,’ said Magda, her voice tearful and cross. ‘I thought I was doing everything right.’
‘Sail-setting is a difficult business,’ said Brisket.
‘But I did what you taught me,’ said Magda. ‘I threw out the loft-sail slowly, just as you said.’
‘But you threw out into a crosswind,’ Rook blurted out, stopping himself when he saw the hurt look on Magda’s face.
‘Rook’s got a point,’ said Brisket softly as he carefully folded Magda’s sails. ‘You must feel what the sail is telling you through the cord. You must watch how the wind shapes it, and let your movements flow. Never fight the sails, Mistress Magda.’
‘But it’s so hard,’ said Magda disconsolately.
‘I know, I know,’ said Brisket understandingly ‘Get Master Rook here to help you. He’s got the touch, and no mistake.’ He paused, and tugged at a last knotted cord. The knot undid, the cord slid free. ‘There, Mistress Magda,’ said Brisket, handing her the sails. ‘That’s all for today. Now, who’s for breakfast?’
Stob, Magda and Rook sat at a long table, which was weighed down by the sumptious spread of food laid out upon it. A little way off, Xanth stood practising his ropecraft. With one lazy movement, he lassoed the great curling horn of a hammelhorn which stood chewing the cud at the far side of its enclosure.
‘Show-off,’ said Stob, and grabbed another huge steak from the platter before them.
‘You’ll turn into a hammelhorn if you eat any more,’ said Magda.
Rook looked across at Xanth. Thanks to his success in varnishing, the young apprentice had gained a head start on the others. He’d already mastered sail-setting and was close to passing ropecraft. Despite this, Rook didn’t feel jealous. Rather, he felt sorry for him. It was Xanth’s haunted expression and quiet, lonely manner that touched him.
‘Oh, he’s all right,’ he said to Stob, and turned back to his steaming tilder stew.
By now the communal tables were bursting with hungry, happy slaughterers, toasting the new night with mugs of woodale and bursting into song. Stob joined in, raising his mug high in the air.
Stob, Rook noticed, loved the slaughterers camp even more than he did. The arrogant, surly Stob he knew seemed to disappear in the company of slaughterers. He relaxed and become almost playful. For their part, the slaughterers had taken to Stob, treating the young apprentice like some sort of prize hammelhorn, to be fed and patted on the back.
Just then there was a loud cry from above their heads. Rook looked up. There, an arm waving in greeting, was Knuckle astride the Woodwasp, bearing down on them in a series of exquisitely executed loops. He had a lasso in his hand, which he was swinging round and round.
Lower he came, swooping down past the communal hammocks strung out between the ironwood trees, over the hammelhorn pens and tanning vats. When he was no more than a dozen strides away, he flicked his wrist forward. The rope coiled down like a striking woodcobra and circled Stob’s raised hand. Knuckle jerked the lasso. The slip-knot tightened around the mug of woodale – which abruptly flew out of Stob’s grasp and up into the air.
‘Hey!’ shouted Stob indignantly.
Knuckle smiled and took a gulp from the mug. ‘Delicious!’ he called down as he brought the little sky-craft in to land. ‘Thanks, friend,’ he said, handing the empty mug to Stob. ‘I was feeling rather thirsty’
Stob looked at the slaughterer for an instant – then a broad smile broke across his face and he threw back his head and roared with laughter. The slaughterers around them joined in.
‘It’s good to see you, Rook,’ said Knuckle, sitting down next to him and helping himself to Rook’s tilder stew. ‘You look more grown-up each time I see you. You’ll be off on your treatise-voyage in no time, I’ll be bound.’
Rook smiled. ‘If I can master ropecraft half as well as you, I hope to,’ he said. ‘The Stormhornet’s varnished, rigged and tethered at Lake Landing, just waiting to be flown – if the masters ever let me, that is.’
‘Oh, they’ll let you all right,’ laughed Knuckle, his mouth full of stew. ‘From what I hear, you’re a natural, just like your friend Xanth over there.’ He paused. A smile played on his lips. ‘A stormhornet, eh? A rare creature, by all accounts. Swift and graceful, and with a sting in its tail; a harbinger of mighty storms brewing far off.’ He clapped Rook on the shoulder. ‘It’s a fine name, Rook, my friend. A fine name!’
The Naming Rite
‘We are assembled here, over Earth and under Sky, to welcome four apprentices to the Academy’s long list of brave librarian knights, so we are,’ announced Parsimmon, the High Master of the Lake Landing Academy Behind him, the mighty Ironwood Glade cast its reflection in the glassy lake; above, the sky glowed a deep gold. The air was heavy and still.
Rook’s heart give a little leap. He was standing in a line with Magda, Stob and Xanth. Before them, at the centre of a long, raised lufwood platform, stood Parsimmon, flanked on both sides by the tutors who had guided them through their long, arduous months of learning: Oakley Gruffbark, the wise and patient woodtroll, his tufted hair blazing a brilliant orange in the evening light; Tweezel, the ancient spindlebug, leaning on an ironwood staff and wheezing softly; and Brisket, the flame-red slaughterer, dressed in a heavy hammelhornskin coat, with a length of rope coiled over one shoulder.
‘You have done well, my young apprentices,’ Parsimmon continued. ‘Very well. For though many months more will pass before you are ready to depart on your treatise-voyages, this evening marks the completion of the fi
rst stage of your studies.’ He turned to the row of skycraft, tethered to heavy rings at the back of the stage. ‘You have carved your skycraft exquisitely, taking care to heed what the wood told you. You have prepared your varnish and applied it with care, to give them the gift of flight. You have rigged them with sails of finest woodspider-silk, tamed by your touch, and you have mastered ropecraft, to tether them and bring you safely back to earth. Well done, my fine young librarian knights!’
Rook lowered his head modestly. The tutors murmured their approval. Rook nudged Xanth and smiled. Xanth looked round and, for an instant, Rook thought he saw a flicker of sadness in his friend’s eyes before he returned the smile.
‘It is time,’ Parsimmon continued, ‘for you to name your skycraft which, tomorrow, you will fly for the first time.’
‘At last,’ Rook heard Stob mutter under his breath.
Magda felt for Rook’s hand and squeezed it tightly. ‘We did it,’ she whispered.
Rook nodded, and looked up into the twilight sky, his eyes wide and heart singing. It was indeed a perfect evening, with the sun warm, the wind gentle, and small clouds rolling across the sky like orange and purple balls of fluff. The water of the lake ruffled like velvet.
‘Step forward, Magda Burlix,’ said Parsimmon.
Magda left the line. She climbed up onto the stage, shook the High Master’s hand and crossed over to where her skycraft was tethered beside the others. She laid her hands upon the gently bobbing figurehead.
‘By Earth and Sky, your name shall be Woodmoth,’ she said, reciting the words she had been practising. ‘Together, we shall set forth into the Deepwoods and return with a treatise entitled The Iridescence of Midnight Woodmoth Wings.’ She bowed her head and returned to her place in the line.
‘Step forward, Stob Lummus,’ said Parsimmon.
Stob came up and rested his hands on the ridged, curling horns of his figurehead. ‘By Earth and Sky, your name shall be Hammelhorn,’ he said in a loud, confident voice. ‘Together, we shall set forth into the Deepwoods and return with a treatise entitled A Study of the Growth Rings of the Coppertree.’
As Xanth stepped forwards, he glanced round at Rook. He looked oddly troubled; sheepish, almost. Rook smiled at his friend encouragingly, but the expression in Xanth’s eyes remained sad, haunted.
‘By Earth and Sky, your name shall be Ratbird,’ Xanth announced, his hands shaking as they clasped the creature’s carved snout. ‘Together, we shall set forth into the Deepwoods …’ His head lowered and the thick hair which had grown unchecked since his arrival at Lake Landing flopped down over his eyes. His voice dropped. ‘And return with a treatise entitled …’ A faraway look came into his eyes as he raised his head. ‘A Witnessing of the Hatching of a Caterbird from its Cocoon.’
It was Rook’s turn. He stepped up onto the stage, his heart bursting with pride and excitement, and walked slowly towards his skycraft. ‘By Earth and Sky, your name shall be Stormhornet,’ he said. ‘Together we shall set forth into the Deepwoods and return with a treatise entitled An Eyewitness Account of the Mythical Great Convocation of Banderbears.’
All four apprentices raised their right hands and touched their bloodoak pendants with their left. Then, heads raised and voices carrying across the dark waters of the lake, they announced in unison, ‘This we pledge to do, or perish in the attempt.’
ook was awoken by shafts of light streaming through the grille of his sleeping-cabin door. He threw off his tilderwool blanket and flung the door open. ‘Magda,’ he called. ‘Magda, are you up yet?’
‘Down here, sleepy head,’ came Magda’s reply.
Screwing up his eyes against the light, Rook squinted down at the landing below. There, resplendent in their green flight-suits, goggles and golden wood-armour, stood Magda, Xanth and Stob.
‘Why didn’t you wake me?’ Rook called angrily.
‘We tried,’ said Stob. ‘But you were dead to the world, believe me.’
Rook scratched his head. He’d had the old familiar nightmare again the previous night, and had woken in the half-light of early dawn, exhausted. He must have nodded off again.
‘Come and join us,’ said Xanth. ‘Your flight-suit’s by your door.’
Sure enough, hanging from the iron hook outside his cabin was a green leather flight-suit with pockets and loops, as yet unfilled with equipment. Wooden leg-shields and arm-protectors dangled from their cord straps beside it. With trembling fingers Rook seized them and, fumbling clumsily, pulled the soft, burnished flight-suit on over his night clothes. His first flight! He was about to go on his first flight! Pausing only to adjust his new goggles, Rook dashed down the tower walkway to join his companions on the landing.
‘Where are our skycraft?’ he asked breathlessly.
‘Over there,’ said Magda, nodding towards the four skycraft, still tethered to the back of the lufwood stage.
There, gently bobbing in the breeze, was the Ratbird, the Hammelhorn, the Woodmoth – and the Stormhornet. Rook grinned. ‘They look good, don’t they?’ he said.
‘They’ll look even better up in the sky,’ said Stob. ‘Where’s our flight instructor? I thought he’d be here by now.’
‘Patience,’ said Magda. ‘We’ve waited long enough. A few more minutes won’t make any difference.’
As the early dawn mist began to lift over the lake, and the sounds of hammelhorn carts rumbling down the woodtroll paths towards the timber yards echoed through the air like distant thunder, the apprentices began to get impatient.
‘Sunrise, the High Master said, didn’t he?’ said Stob. ‘So where is our flight instructor?’
‘Perhaps he overslept, whoever he is,’ said Xanth.
‘Forgotten all about us, more like,’ said Stob irritably.
‘Well, I’m not going to stand for it. How about you three?’
The others shrugged.
‘Just once round the lake and back again,’ Stob said. ‘It can’t do any harm. Who’s up for it?’
‘Me,’ said Rook and Xanth together.
Magda nodded. ‘All right,’ she said quietly.
Rook ran to the Stormhornet. Now that it had been decided, he couldn’t wait to be up in the sky. He released the tether, jumped up onto the saddle and, feet in the stirrups, grasped the two wooden rope-handles.
With nimble fingers, he raised the loft-sail and lowered the nether-sail – keeping a hold of the upper nether-sail rope as he did so. The two sails billowed out in front of him, just as they had so many times before, when he had been perched on top of the training block. This time, however, his craft was not secured to the ground.
With a tremble and a sigh, the elegant Stormhornet rose from the platform. For a second, it hovered there, its sails fluttering and flight-weights swaying.
Then, as the wind took it, Rook pulled on the pinnerrope, and the skycraft suddenly came to life and surged upwards into the crisp morning air.
Nothing could have prepared Rook for the thrill which raced through his body as the skycraft climbed ever higher. Not the buoyant lecterns, nor riding the prowlgrins as they leaped from tree to tree – nor even his brief flight with Knuckle. This time, he was in control. The Stormhornet responded to his every movement, dipping and swooping, rising and looping, utterly obedient to his command. It was exhilarating. It was awesome.
Once round the lake, Stob had said, yet now he was airborne, Rook had no intention of landing so soon. He looked round at the others. Stob was some way to his left, his flight steady and arrow-straight, the heavy hammelhorn prow seemingly butting its way through the currents of air. Magda, in contrast, seemed almost to be fluttering; this way and that she went, darting through the air, catching each gust and eddy for just a moment before changing course. Rook realigned the weights and sails, pulled the pinnerrope to his left and swooped down towards her. As their eyes met, they both burst out laughing.
‘Isn’t this the best thing ever?’ said Rook, his voice snatched away on the wind.
‘Incredible!’ Magda shouted back.
Xanth, sleek and poised on the Ratbird, swooped down low over the lake, his trailing flight-weights skimming the still surface. Rook gasped at the elegance of his friend’s flight. Xanth twitched the ropes and flew off, laughing.
Standing up in the stirrups, and tugging hard on the pinner-rope, Rook gave chase. Up to the top of the trees they flew, then, twisting round, they hurtled down, down like stones, before pulling out at the last moment, skimming the water again, and soaring back into the sky.
Xanth glanced round, his face glowing with excitement.
‘Whup! Whup! Wahoo!’ Rook cried.
‘Wahoo!’ Xanth bellowed and, turning away, darted back off towards the trees, looping the loop twice as he went.
This time Rook did not follow. Pulling the Stormhornet round, he flew back across the lake.
All at once he heard a cry of alarm, and spun round to see Stob and the Hammelhorn hurtling straight towards a great ironwood tree on the far edge of the lake. His hands were a blur of movement as they leaped around the ropes and levers, but the Hammelhorn was not responding. With a sickening crunch, the skycraft struck the tree’s massive trunk, and fell.
Rook gasped and, distracted, let go of his own sail-ropes. The next moment he felt a heavy drag below him. Looking down, he saw, to his horror, that the nether-sail was half immersed in water. Desperately, he tried to raise it, while at the same time giving full head to the loft-sail. But it was no use. With a loud splash, the Stormhornet struck the lake.
The icy water snatched Rook’s breath away and chilled him instantly to the bone. He struggled desperately upwards, fighting against the weight of his wet clothes, and emerged next to the Stormhornet, which was bobbing about on the surface, pinned down by its sodden sails. Gasping with relief, Rook grabbed hold of the tether-rope, and clung on tightly.
Overhead, Magda seemed to stall. Her sails collapsed and the Woodmoth lurched to one side. With a shrill scream, she tumbled down towards the lake. There was a resounding splash, followed, seconds later, by coughing and spluttering as Magda surfaced beside Rook.